Thomas Campbell (1777-1844 / Glasgow / Scotland)

At summer eve, when heaven's aerial bow
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below,
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky?
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? -
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue.